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  ‘Though I’ve still got to get Egill’s consent for the overtime.’

  Huldar didn’t exactly relish the prospect of discussing the matter with his boss. Egill was the only person unaffected by the frantic activity around him. Instead of doing his bit to help, he was immersed in a stock-take of the office equipment and checking that maintenance had been carried out in accordance with policy. Egill had never worried about such things before, simply bought new gadgets to replace the old ones. Presumably the National Audit Office had started asking awkward questions and he was stressed about having poured money into equipment for an already well-equipped organisation. Huldar was dreading a barrage of questions about the registration and loan of gear. On the plus side, as long as his boss was occupied with searching for mislaid and obsolete bugging devices, thirteen pairs of protective footwear and two riot shields, and puzzling over the calibration of distance-measuring devices, he wouldn’t have time to interfere with the investigation. If he managed to finish his stock count, Egill could always busy himself with collecting up the new iPads and hiding them from the auditors.

  ‘Are either of you interested in coming to the Children’s House with me? They’re making another attempt to interview Margrét.’ Glancing at the clock, Huldar saw that it was nearly time to leave. He had no intention of being late, especially since he had used the interview as an excuse not to attend the post-mortem on Ástrós. The pathologist had been very nice about it and refrained from comment, although he knew full well that Huldar was chickening out. Instead, he had promised Huldar an especially thorough report. Even the thought of that was enough to make Huldar’s skin crawl. When the duct tape had been removed and the appliance extracted from the woman’s throat, it had indeed turned out to be a pair of curling tongs. He could just imagine the sort of damage they had done. ‘I want to get there on time so we can brief the interviewer properly.’ This might also give him a chance to have a coffee with Freyja and attempt to make his peace with her. In retrospect, he wished he could retract his invitation to the others, recalling too late how badly she and Erla had got on. It wouldn’t help his case to have Erla there, directing snide remarks at Freyja. That is, unless it made him look good in comparison. He hoped Ríkhardur would pre-empt her.

  ‘I’m up for it.’ Predictably, Erla was quicker off the mark. ‘Fuck, I need a break from my desk.’

  Ríkhardur closed his half-open mouth, swallowing what he had been about to say. He was too uptight to admit that he would have liked to go, but his look of consternation gave him away. ‘I can stay behind. Apparently we’ve received a ton of tip-offs. I can go through them while there’s nothing more urgent to do.’

  Huldar had been intending to ask Ríkhardur to have a go at deciphering the cryptic messages, but tip-offs from the public were one of the most tedious aspects of any inquiry and it was rare for people to volunteer to take them on. He couldn’t afford to decline the offer. ‘OK. Good.’

  The bulk of the tip-offs were invariably a waste of time. In their desire to help, the public failed to grasp that the police had nothing to gain from following up their intuitions and fantasies. Yet because this kind of information occasionally led to an arrest, the police couldn’t afford to discount it. They were just lucky it wasn’t a missing-persons case or one that involved asking the public to identify an individual from CCTV footage: an unknown man in a hoodie could result in a deluge of phone calls that proved almost impossible to halt even after the case had been solved. He imagined that fewer people would ring in if they put out an urgent appeal for news of a black man with an unusually large head. Then again …

  ‘Try to filter out the time-wasters.’ Huldar saved his work and closed his open files. ‘I’ll find someone to relieve you when we get back.’

  ‘No need. Once I’ve started, I might as well finish.’ Ríkhardur looked as sour as if he had bitten into a lemon.

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Apparently they’re unusually colourful this time. I gather the paranormal gang have started calling in.’ When Huldar said this, the sour expression intensified. Poor guy. Maybe that would encourage him to assert his real wishes for a change.

  ‘The paranormal gang, what the fuck?’ Erla frowned. Instead of leaning against the doorpost she was now digging her hands so deep into her pockets that it was lucky she had a good hefty belt on. Perhaps she was doing it to relieve her shoulder.

  Huldar fumbled for the car keys. ‘You know the kind of thing – psychics, crackpots claiming they can help us by contacting the dead or through dreams and so on. They always crawl out of the woodwork when there’s news of a murder. Though strangely enough they never seem to beat the media to it.’ He located his keys and stood up. ‘That kind of bullshit can go straight to the bottom of the pile as far as I’m concerned. Concentrate on the tips that might contain a grain of sense.’ He smiled at Ríkhardur in an attempt to jolly him along. After all, he owed him. ‘Good luck. I’ll look in when I get back. I’d like you to join me when I haul in Freyja’s ex-boyfriend to question him about the attacks on those dogs. We need to shake him up a bit; make sure he leaves her alone.’

  Erla scowled; she didn’t even bother to hide her jealousy. Honestly, she and Ríkhardur were like a pair of children. Huldar regretted having broken all his pencils; he could happily have snapped a few more right now.

  Why couldn’t they be like they used to be? Before he was promoted; before he stupidly cuckolded Ríkhardur. If only he could turn back the clock to the days when they were all on the same level; when he didn’t have to turn away, shamefaced, on the rare occasions when Ríkhardur confided in him about his grief over Karlotta and his lost dream of starting a little family. Even if it were only for the duration of the inquiry. Once it was over, he could deal with this, try to improve their relations. He simply didn’t have the time now.

  He felt like a man playing hopscotch in a minefield. Things couldn’t go on like this.

  But any good intentions Huldar had about coming clean led to an impasse. Why should he salve his conscience at Ríkhardur’s expense? Hadn’t the guy suffered enough? If Huldar confessed to him about his and Karlotta’s terrible mistake, it would be like spitting on Ríkhardur’s memory of a perfect marriage, which was, at the end of the day, no better than many others. And that was quite apart from the repercussions it would have for their relationship at work.

  Erla interrupted these thoughts with an aggrieved complaint. ‘Why the hell are we wasting time on Freyja and her ex? We’re rushed off our feet as it is – surely she’s capable of sorting out her own problems? For fuck’s sake, she’s a psychologist, isn’t she?’

  Huldar slammed down the car keys, took out his nicotine gum and popped two pieces in his mouth, chomping until he felt the drug dissolving and flowing into his capillaries. Only then could he trust himself to speak. The gum didn’t entirely conceal his rage but at least his colleagues didn’t recoil from him in fright. ‘As long as the girl is staying with Freyja we have a duty to prioritise any possible threats to her safety. Someone needs to give Freyja’s ex a talking-to, and I don’t want to hear another word on the subject.’ So much for his dream of restoring them all to an equal footing again.

  He stomped off towards the lift, Erla following silently in his wake. On the way they passed the offices of the two men who would have been the most likely candidates to head up this inquiry if they hadn’t been grounded in their offices until the public had forgotten the scandal over their misconduct. Both glanced up as he walked past, and tried to look busy though they weren’t fooling anyone. Neither acknowledged him.

  Chapter 24

  Molly couldn’t get used to the plastic collar. Before the interview began she roamed restlessly around the meeting room, colliding with people and furniture. Huldar’s calves, which seemed to hold a particular attraction for her, were feeling distinctly bruised. He faked indifference, while nursing a private desire to drag the dog outside by her collar and despatch her to the police car. But Margrét had become so a
ttached to Molly that they hoped the animal’s presence would have a calming effect on her. If the dog helped the little girl to open up, she was welcome to bash into his shins as often as she liked.

  Nothing had come of the coffee with Freyja. From the moment Huldar and Erla arrived, the task ahead had claimed all their attention. There had been some debate about whether Silja should continue the questioning or hand over to Freyja. While Silja had not had much success in persuading Margrét to talk, the girl was at least used to her presence on the sofa beside her. On the other hand, Freyja had reached a good, if fragile, understanding with Margrét, but there was a risk the girl might retreat into her shell if Freyja suddenly switched roles. Huldar and Erla stayed out of the discussion.

  Eventually, it fell to Freyja to stick the tiny speaker in her ear and thread the wire down her back to the battery that hung from her waistband. Meanwhile, Silja sat on the other side of the glass, distracting Margrét with small talk. Today the girl was wearing a top with a picture of a panda on it and jeans decorated with sequins in flower patterns, which made her look even younger than her seven years.

  Huldar watched Freyja, struck by the contrast between her delicate handling of the equipment and the way police officers behaved when donning a wire. Unlike them, she made no show of puffed-up heroism, nor was she likely to indulge in any chest-beating once everything was in place. Of course, she wasn’t facing the same kind of situation as a police officer in full riot gear but he didn’t think that was the reason. Erla would have shoved the piece in her ear with enough force to pierce her eardrum, then roughly yanked the wire through her shirt and no doubt stamped her foot to help it on its way.

  ‘OK. I’m ready.’ Freyja refastened her belt and loosened her ponytail so her hair fell over her ears. ‘Anything specific you want me to focus on? Any particular order of priorities?’ She directed her question at Huldar as he prepared to take the same seat as last time. The group in the meeting room followed suit. Erla sat down beside him, arms folded across her chest like a sulky child. They had driven to the centre in silence and no doubt the drive back would be the same. She had a short fuse but wasn’t the type who was equally quick to shrug off her anger.

  Huldar dismissed Erla from his mind. ‘Naturally we’re particularly keen to learn about anything she may have seen or heard. Anything that could help us identify the killer. It would also be interesting to find out why she blames her dad, as that might be significant. And we need to know if she remembers the trip to the petrol station the day before the murder and can tell us if there was a man in the car with them. Plus, if we have time, I’d like to ask her about the message that was left at her house. But that’s less urgent.’

  Freyja nodded and left the room. They watched her swap places with Silja. Molly, who had followed her, began frantically wagging her tail the moment she spotted Margrét, her plastic collar flapping about wildly. They had only been parted for quarter of an hour: Huldar couldn’t imagine how the dog would greet her after a longer absence. ‘Right. Here we are again.’ Freyja settled on the sofa beside Margrét. ‘We weren’t that long, were we?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘No.’ Putting her hand inside the plastic cone, she stroked Molly’s head. The dog reacted with pleasure.

  Freyja indulged in some brief small talk, mainly about the dog, discussing whether they should take her for a walk around the block afterwards or go out to Geirsnef. Freyja’s comment that Molly might be embarrassed to be seen in the collar by other dogs brought a smile to the girl’s lips and her back relaxed slightly, but she stiffened up again the moment Freyja got down to business.

  ‘Now, Margrét, you know the police are looking for the man who hurt your mummy. They really want to put him in prison so we can make sure he won’t hurt anyone else.’ The decision had been taken to shield the girl from the news of Ástrós’s death. It might upset her and derail the interview. Margrét nodded gravely. She seemed to accept the seriousness of the matter. It was a good sign. Freyja continued: ‘But to be sure of catching him quickly, the police need to know who he is. Otherwise they won’t have a clue who they’re looking for.’

  ‘Murderers aren’t like us.’ This emerged almost in a whisper.

  ‘No, they’re not. Not on the inside. But they can look just like the rest of us on the outside.’

  ‘Not this murderer.’

  ‘No. The way you described him, he sounds very unusual-looking.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh? I don’t know anyone with a very big head. White or black.’ Freyja raised her hands to sketch an oval in the air the size of a basketball. ‘Was it this big?’

  ‘Yes.’ Margrét’s voice was barely audible and the audience round the table had to crane towards the speaker. She seemed to have realised how unrealistic her description had been. ‘It was like that.’

  Freyja seemed momentarily at a loss for a suitable follow-up question so Huldar bent to the mike. ‘Ask what his hair was like. Perhaps his head looked unusually big because he was wearing a wig or had a strange hairstyle that confused her in the dark.’

  Freyja began speaking the moment he finished. ‘Do you happen to remember what kind of hair the man had, Margrét?’ She didn’t explain why she was asking this or give any examples of possible hair colours or styles. Huldar had learnt enough about their techniques at the Children’s House to realise that this was deliberate. She didn’t want to risk influencing the girl’s memories.

  ‘He didn’t have any hair.’

  The answer caused a stir; everyone exchanged glances. All except Huldar, who knew that no hairs belonging to the perpetrator or artificial fibres from a wig had been found at the scene. The consensus was that the murderer must have hoovered the bed with a small handheld vacuum that he had brought along specially to remove any biological traces. For obvious reasons, the family vacuum cleaner wouldn’t have been available for the task. It had been the same story at Ástrós’s flat; no alien hairs had been found. When they opened up her vacuum-cleaner bag, it had contained only her own hair. This had increased the likelihood that the man had come equipped with a handheld vacuum. But if he had no hair, that would also explain it.

  ‘Was he bald?’ Freyja managed to ask the question in a perfectly neutral voice. Margrét mustn’t be able to detect the slightest hint of a desire for a yes or no.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The girl sounded agitated or confused. She fidgeted on the small sofa, avoiding Freyja’s eye. ‘He had a shiny head, I remember that.’ Margrét frowned. Then looking at Freyja she added in a tone almost of enquiry. ‘He didn’t have any ears.’

  Erla swore. Huldar felt a stab of anger and hoped the sound hadn’t carried to Freyja. But he checked an urge to look daggers at Erla; it wouldn’t do any good and would only delay the interview. Instead he bent to the mike again. ‘Ask her if the man she saw in the garden looked the same. With no ears and so on.’

  On the other side of the glass Freyja crossed her legs and nodded so faintly that Huldar barely caught it. ‘Margrét. You remember the pictures we showed you last time? Did the man in your drawing look like the man you saw in your house that night? With a big black head and no ears?’

  Margrét twisted a strand of red hair round her fingers, looking thoughtful. ‘Yes. I think so. But I don’t know. He had a hood.’

  ‘What kind of hood? An anorak hood or a balaclava?’

  Margrét furrowed her brow. ‘A balaclava? What’s that?’

  Freyja smiled. ‘It’s a hat that comes all the way down to your neck, with a hole for your face or small holes for the eyes and mouth. Sometimes there’s no hole for the nose. If you saw a man wearing a hood like that in the dark you might think he had a black head and no ears.’

  ‘Don’t they have holes for ears?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t wearing one of those. It was a hood. An anorak hood.’

  ‘Was the man you saw in your house that night wearing an anorak hood?’

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p; ‘No.’ The answer came straight back.

  ‘A balaclava then?’

  ‘No.’ Again the girl answered without hesitation.

  ‘All right.’ Freyja gave a sideways glance at the two-way mirror and Huldar took this to mean that she needed a prompt.

  ‘Ask her about the trip to the petrol station.’

  ‘Margrét, do you remember when you all went to fill up with petrol last Thursday?’

  Margrét shook her head.

  ‘Tell her that her mother bought them ice lollies. That might help her put it in context.’

  ‘Your mummy bought ice lollies for you and your brothers.’

  Margrét nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I remember that. Stebbi and Bárdur were being naughty. They were fighting over the Spider-Man.’

  ‘I see.’

  Freyja’s smile transported Huldar back to their night together. He coughed behind his hand in an attempt to block out this inappropriate flashback. God, he was an idiot to have walked out on her. Freyja stopped smiling and resumed her questioning, which recalled his attention to the task in hand.

  ‘Who was in the car when you went to the petrol station?’

  Margrét looked irritated. ‘I just told you. Me, Stebbi and Bárdur. And Mummy, of course.’

  ‘No one else.’

  ‘No, I’d have said so.’

  ‘Of course you would.’

  Huldar interrupted. ‘Ask her who filled the car with petrol.’

  ‘Who put the petrol in the car? Can you remember?’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘No. I didn’t think it was, and I don’t suppose it was Stefán or Bárdur either.’

  Margrét snorted like an old lady. ‘They couldn’t do it. They’re too little and clumsy.’

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘The man. The man from the petrol station.’

  ‘The pump attendant? Was he wearing the petrol-station uniform?’